


Floodgates

by moonblossom



Series: Prompt Fills, Remixes, Works inspired by others [8]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, First Time, Hand Jobs, John is obliging, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Multiple Orgasms, Rimming, Sherlock is a demanding pain in the arse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-13
Updated: 2012-11-13
Packaged: 2017-11-18 13:57:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/561804
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonblossom/pseuds/moonblossom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock's well and truly ready for a thorough fucking.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Floodgates

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Persian Slipper (Luthe)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Luthe/gifts).



> For persian-slipper, who won my giveaway on tumblr. Her prompt was: _I've developed something of a Virgin!Sherlock kink. Sherlock's POV please, with him being overwhelmed by the flood of sheer data and sensations and emotions that go along with sex_
> 
> Huge thanks to [airynothing](http://archiveofourown.org/users/airynothing) and [roane](http://archiveofourown.org/users/roane) for laser eyes and invaluable advice. Any mistakes left are entirely my own.

Sherlock studies John, who is tapping away industriously at his laptop. John, who has been so kind, so sweet, so patient during the duration of their rather unorthodox courtship. When he found out that Sherlock was indeed as inexperienced in the bedroom as Irene had implied what seems like years ago, he had pulled away. Not in disgust, but seemingly out of some misguided attempt to give Sherlock time and space.  
  
There’s been some fantastically all-consuming snogging on the sofa since then that’s driven Sherlock to distraction, and it’s been lovely. But John always seems able to sense that whenever Sherlock starts losing control of his faculties, he gets uncomfortable, and gallantly pulls away. Sherlock appreciates the effort, but it’s getting tiresome. It’s time to take control.  
  
“John…” Sherlock draws his name out, dropping his voice slightly. “I’m ready.”  
  
John looks up, blinking owlishly. The confusion on his face is utterly delicious. “Ready? Are we going somewhere?”  
  
“Not necessarily. Except…” Sherlock pauses for emphasis. There’s a series of quick-fire debates inside Sherlock’s head, the comfort of the bed warring with the practicality of the sofa. In the end, the increased surface area and the proximity to the bottle of lube he bought earlier win out, and he smiles at John. “Perhaps the bedroom?”  
  
“The bedroom? Oh. Oh!” Sherlock grins as realisation dawns on John’s face, a slight flush colouring his cheeks. “Sherlock, are you positive?” The abrupt click of John’s laptop closing echoes through the sitting room.  
  
Sherlock sighs theatrically. In truth, he's been ready for ages. Itching for it. Sex, which had always seemed so messy, so pedestrian, so unappealing, has suddenly become the most fascinating new puzzle thanks to the introduction of one strange new variable. John. John, who has the inexplicable ability to turn something mundane into something gloriously fascinating. But John’s had some noble notions about Sherlock's innocence, and however misguided they may be, Sherlock’s found them endearing until recently. Now he just can’t wait any longer. There are new sensations to catalogue, new experiences to study.  
  
John stands, holding his hand out to Sherlock in a charmingly archaic gesture. Sherlock stares intently for a moment, taking in the flush on John’s throat; the dilation of his pupils; his short, rapid breaths. He stands, taking John’s hand with a grin, and all but drags him to the hallway.  
  
They’ve barely made it to the expanse of wall between the kitchen and the door to Sherlock’s bedroom when the urge to pin John down and claim him becomes absolutely overpowering. Sherlock crowds John against the wall, wrapping one hand around the back of his neck and tilting his face upward. His other hand is braced against the wall, allowing him to lean forward, pressing one knee between John’s legs. The warmth emanating from John’s groin is startling, feverish, and Sherlock’s thigh trembles slightly at the contact. He can feel John’s arousal, heavy through the weight of his jeans, pressing against his hip. His own penis throbs in sympathy, the flow of blood slow but sure.  
  
Unable to wait any longer, Sherlock dips and presses his mouth to John’s. They’ve kissed before, plenty of times, but somehow this one is different; fierce, hungry, and desperate. Sherlock’s tongue forcefully parts John’s lips, and for a moment Sherlock is lost in the sensations - the stubble of John’s jaw; the soft, pliant warmth of his lips; the smoothness of his teeth contrasting with the faint roughness of his cleverly probing tongue.  
  
Somehow, they manage to stumble into the bedroom without breaking the kiss, John’s shoulder blades smacking the door open with a noise that should be painful but goes ignored. Sherlock guides him to the bed and they fall together in an ungainly heap of tangled limbs and rumpled clothing. After the most miraculous eternity, Sherlock pulls away, gasping for breath. He stares down at John, as though he’s the most wonderfully fascinating puzzle in the universe. For the moment, maybe, he is.  
  
John’s breathing has quickened even further, and suddenly Sherlock is acutely aware of his own respirations, matching John’s inhale for inhale. Nearly panting. With anyone else, losing control of his faculties like this would be repellent, embarrassing. Instead, with John, it’s painfully, frighteningly intimate, and Sherlock just wants to get closer, to breathe in as John breathes out. Impulsively, he does so. He crawls forward, so their lips are barely brushing, the air mingling between them warm and damp. Impatient as ever, Sherlock dips down and presses his mouth to John's again. John, whose lips are warm and soft and part eagerly to welcome Sherlock's tongue.  
  
Deftly, without breaking the kiss, John insinuates his hands between their bodies and undoes the buttons along the front of Sherlock's shirt. The rush of cool air combined with the gentle warmth of John's fingers raises goose bumps along Sherlock's torso; he can feel his nipples hardening against the fabric as John pulls his shirt open.  In the back of Sherlock's mind, there's the vague sensation that he should be doing something, saying something, helping John somehow, but right now all he can do is close his eyes and try to remember how to breathe. _In through the nose, out through the mouth._ This plan is all going well until clever, clever John hooks his feet behind Sherlock's bent knees, and, throwing Sherlock entirely off balance, shifts their weight and rolls them both over in one fluid motion. Sherlock, who thought he had some modicum of control over the situation up until this point, suddenly finds himself winded, flat on his back, with a thoroughly hungry and predatory John looming over him. He tries to remember to breathe again, and fails when he's assaulted by the sensation of the flat of John's tongue along the length of his throat.  
  
The whimper Sherlock lets out is decidedly embarrassing, but John doesn't seem to mind at all. If anything, he seems to be reveling in the fact that he's making Sherlock lose control of his faculties so quickly and so efficiently. Sherlock huffs in frustration, and John nips teasingly at his earlobe.  
  
"Relax, Sherlock. You're supposed to make noises like that. It'll all go much more smoothly if you stop trying to restrain yourself."  
  
The words in and of themselves are mundane, harmless, but put together in that way, and with John's voice gone all breathy and rough, it's the most obscene thing Sherlock's ever heard. He whimpers again and capitulates, letting his head thump heavily against the bed.  
  
"You..." he pants. "You should be flattered that you get to see me like this."  
  
John sits up slightly, so he can look Sherlock in the eye. "Believe me, I'm cherishing every moment of this." Taking advantage of his position, John reaches up and pulls his striped jumper over his head, along with the thin cotton vest he was wearing beneath it. There's a sharp intake of breath Sherlock doesn't quite realise was his, as he studies the planes and angles of John's torso. The muscle, still not gone soft, not with all the running around they do. The thin thatch of hair across his sternum, fair and muddled as the hair on his head - blonde and brown and slightly silvered. And the scar. Oh. The scar. Sherlock's seen it before, but much like the kisses, much like the words that have been spoken, everything is new tonight. He reaches out, without asking for permission, knowing somehow it would be granted anyway, and strokes one finger over the puckered round of tissue, smooth and white against the slightly golden skin. John closes his eyes and runs his tongue across his lower lip as Sherlock's fingers conquer the unexplored territory of his chest.  
  
Gradually, Sherlock's hands find their way around John's torso to his back. His fingers splay, sliding along the hollows between John's ribs, meeting up again at his spine. John's head drops, planting a soft kiss against Sherlock's collarbone each time Sherlock's hands rise and fall over the geography of his spine. Sherlock catalogues each vertebra with his dextrous fingers, catalogues the sensation whenever John kisses him; somehow impossibly different every time.  
  
When he gets to the waistband of John's trousers, Sherlock grunts impatiently. There will be time for slow, teasing undressing later. Right now he wants full, unguarded access to the mysteries of John's entire body. Understanding, as always, John braces himself with his good arm, the scarred shoulder puckering as he slides his left hand down to undo his belt and flies. Never one to pass up an opportunity, he undoes Sherlock's at the same time. Sherlock grins up at John, pleased with his efficiency, with his ability to make even something as tedious as undressing somehow interesting.  
  
There's a moment or two of awkward fumbling as they pull apart and squirm out of their clothes, but even now John is still fascinating to watch. His chest is flushed, as are the tops of his thighs. Sherlock's not sure he's ever seen a similar pattern of capillary action. Once they are both freed of their trousers and socks, John rolls back onto Sherlock, slotting neatly into place. Now the only barrier between them is two thin layers of cotton - Sherlock's black boxer-briefs, and John's alarmingly red pants. Sherlock smirks again, at John's unfailing, unflagging ability to _not be boring._  
  
He rocks his hips up, grinding against John, their twin erections straining against the confines of their undergarments. John has buried his face in the length of Sherlock's throat again. His hands are stroking Sherlock's arms and shoulders, as he murmurs sweet endearments, laced with obscenities.  
  
"Gorgeous. Look at you, Sherlock. You're like fucking alabaster. Like a beautiful bloody statue. How'd you get that brain and that body, it's not fucking fair." The words could have been hurtful, but they're murmured with such fondness and affection that Sherlock immediately files them away, to be replayed and revisited again and again.  
  
Reaching up to run his fingers through the short, soft strands of John's hair, Sherlock grins again. John's staring down at him, studying him as though he's won a prize. Sherlock locks his legs around John's, reveling in the sensation of skin and heat and sweat, touching as they are from head to feet. His other hand finds its way to John's arse, insinuating itself under the snug elastic of his pants and cupping the firm flesh he finds there. John whimpers and presses his forehead against Sherlock. Their faces are close enough that Sherlock has to fight to focus, but fight he does. The sight of John's closed eyes, lids already heavy with desire, and the fan of soft lashes across his cheek is not an image Sherlock ever wants to lose. At the moment the evaporation rate of certain solvents seems thoroughly unimportant and worthy of deletion, in case Sherlock needs more room for John in the future.  
  
They lie, entangled together, for what feels like milliseconds and an eternity, all at once. As strangely enjoyable as this indistinct, soft, lazy contact might be, Sherlock wants more.  
  
He leans up against the confines of John's strong arms and chest, and murmurs against the unexpectedly soft skin where his jaw meets his ear. “Want you John, want you inside of me.” The sharp twitch of John's cock against Sherlock's hip makes it evident that John wants the same thing, even if he's not ready to admit it quite yet.  
  
“There are plenty of things we can do tonight that don’t involve penetration.” John stammers, running his tongue absently over his lip; which only serves to push the incoherent, hormone-driven thoughts from the back of Sherlock’s mind further to the forefront. He lifts his head up and glares.  
  
“John. When have you ever known me to ask for something I wasn’t absolutely positive I wanted?” He can tell by the conflicting body language - slight droop of shoulders but significant uptick in pulse and respiration - that John’s realised there’s no point in arguing. Which is more than fine with Sherlock. He wants John inside of him, and it’s clear John wants to cooperate. He’s just got some misguided sense of noble chivalry to get over.  
  
“I want to feel that -” he pauses, insinuating his hand down between them to gently cup John’s erection through his pants and marvelling at how warm and solid it feels, “- I want to feel you. Us. Together.” He runs his thumb over the wet spot that's formed over the crown.  
  
The noise John makes is desperate, strangled, and impossibly arousing. Sherlock smirks, confident in the knowledge that he’s regained control of his faculties. He traces his fingers once again over the prominent head of John's penis, earning a subtle full-body shudder before pulling his hand away and propping himself back up on the mattress with both arms.  
  
“Lube.” John swallows, his adam’s apple bobbing prominently. “We’re going to need lube. And. Oh god - condoms.”  
  
Sherlock waves a dismissive hand, bracing his weight on the other arm. “There’s a new bottle in my bedside table, and there’s no need for condoms.”  
  
John splutters. “Sherlock. If you want me to… to…” John pauses and licks his lip again, flushing slightly. Sherlock’s reptile brain pushes to the forefront again. “To fuck you, we’re going to need condoms.”  
  
A petulant scowl passes briefly over Sherlock’s face. “John. You’re too conscientious a person - and too good a doctor - to skip getting tested between lovers. After that last one with the spots-”  
  
“Freckles, Sherlock. They were _freckles_.”  
  
“Irrelevant. Your demeanour and outlook towards your own personal health and safety didn’t change so I can only surmise that any tests you had done came out negative.”  
  
John gapes at Sherlock but says nothing. Sherlock can’t help but glance down and observe that this conversation, however dry and unnecessary, has done very little to abate John’s arousal, despite his own erection flagging slightly during this interruption. He feels a strange sense of pride that John apparently wants him so desperately.  
  
“As for myself,” he continues without missing a beat, “I was thoroughly tested last time I engaged in any theoretically risky behaviour, but I never shared needles so it’s a bit of a moot point. Ergo, no condoms.” John’s eyes darken briefly at the cavalier mention of Sherlock’s history. He’s quiet a moment longer, staring pensively at Sherlock.  
  
“You’ve really thought this through, haven’t you? Sure I’d say yes, were you?”  
  
Sherlock grins. “I was merely prepared for a wide range of possible outcomes once I realised my attraction to you was reciprocated.”  
  
John sighs, leaning forward to press a kiss to Sherlock's shoulder. "I'm crazy. You make me crazy. But you're right."  
  
"Of course I am. Besides, I don't want any more barriers between us."  
  
"I suppose this is a promise then? Exclusivity?"  
  
Sherlock pulls back, strangely distraught. The thought that this was anything other than exclusive from the get-go has never even occurred to him. Has John been thinking differently? John, clearly sensing the sudden tension in Sherlock's body, reaches up to run his thumb along Sherlock's cheekbone. The contact is burning and electric, but does little to soothe the irrational fluttering in his chest.  
  
"Hey, hey. It was a hypothetical question. I haven't been dating anyone, and I don't want to date anyone. I don't want anyone else besides you, Sherlock. But what if I'm not enough for you? Once we do this, there's no going back."  
  
And just like that, Sherlock melts back into the mattress. "John, you're an idiot. You'll always be enough for me." The smile John gives in return is crooked and sweet and utterly disarming. Every time Sherlock feels as though he's regained his footing here, he loses it again.  
  
The matter settled, Sherlock closes his eyes and goes back to focusing on the contact of John's fingers, now creeping along his ribcage, and the moist puffs of air against his throat as John breathes heavily, lips not quite touching his skin.  
  
"Keep your eyes closed." John's voice has roughened further, the edges of his words frayed with need. Sherlock pouts slightly, he'd wanted to study John, but the darkness helps him focus on feeling rather than sight. He clamps his eyes shut in an attempt to clear his mind. There's a shift in the weight on the mattress, and a rush of cool air across his face and throat, making it clear that John has pulled away. No sound of feet on the floor though, so not gone entirely, just repositioning himself. Sherlock's a bit lost for a moment, until he's startled out of his reverie by the sensation of a rough, hot tongue across the flat skin of his sternum. Just when he's gotten acclimatised to the feeling, John pulls away. Sherlock finds himself snarling irritably, only to be distracted again by impossibly soft lips pursing around his left nipple.  
  
Shocks spread across his chest as John's teeth drag gently and carefully over the hardened nub, and Sherlock curls his toes into the sheets. In the thirty-odd years he's been alive, he's never felt this. He's masturbated before, when it became an inconvenience, but never bothered exploring his own body, and certainly nobody else had been offered the privilege. Suddenly this feels like both an enormous oversight and a blessing. Sherlock's strangely content to think that John will be the only one who ever gets to cause these sensations, to see the reactions they cause.  
  
Abruptly, John's tongue is gone again. Sherlock finds himself trembling, attempting to anticipate where he'll feel the contact next. The logical progression would be the navel, but no, John is surprising as ever, running his tongue along the bottom edge of Sherlock's ribcage. Surely that shouldn't feel as good as it does. There's a slight drag of teeth, and a similar mirroring on Sherlock's left hip as John drags his nails lightly under the band of Sherlock's pants.  
  
"Hips. Up." The words are murmured softly, but Sherlock can no more ignore the command behind them than a soldier could have ignored a direct order. He braces his feet and shoulders against the mattress and lifts his hips, anticipating the immediate removal of his pants. Yet again, John catches him off-guard, dragging his teeth over the soft curve of Sherlock's waist and running his fingers lightly into the dip of his spine first. Sherlock nearly crumbles, the teeth and fingers just this side of tickling uncomfortably.  
  
Eventually, John must take pity on the ridiculous picture Sherlock has painted with himself - eyes squeezed shut; body arching absurdly off the bed; cock not fully hard, yet still somehow leaking at the tip. Mercifully, John finally extricates Sherlock from his offending pants, knuckles brushing the length of his cock just barely firmly enough to not be accidental. Sherlock whimpers, and John chuckles softly.  
  
"Lie down, spread your legs for me." Again, with that tone of voice. So gentle and patient, but impossible to ignore. Sherlock lets himself down with a muffled thump, rearranging his feet so his legs are splayed in a position that should feel obscene, but instead feels like he's offering himself up to John. He's desperate to see John's face, to study his expression, and in the end Sherlock's immortal curiosity wins out. He peeks out of one eye, only to see John staring back, smiling fondly. He runs the splayed fingers of one hand down the length of Sherlock's torso.  
  
"I'm surprised you held out with your eyes shut as long as you did. What happened to seeing but not observing?"  
  
Sherlock huffs. "One can observe without needing to see. Sometimes it helps focus the mind."  
  
John just laughs, a warm chuckle from deep in his chest. "In that case, Sherlock, you might want to close them again."  
  
Without giving Sherlock so much as a moment to prepare himself, John drops down and takes Sherlock into his mouth. The feeling of John is everywhere - hands on hips, hands on legs, mouth somehow _everywhere_. Too much and not enough all at once. Sherlock can feel his prick, which has remained thick but not fully proud until now completely hardening again against John’s tongue.  
  
Suddenly, alarmingly, Sherlock finds himself fretting about his penis. He's always had a perfectly serviceable one, performing its necessary duties with efficiency. Surrounded by dark curls, a bit longer than average but not particularly endowed of girth - much like the rest of Sherlock, in fact. But what if John’s expecting something more than this, something spectacular?  
  
Just as he finds himself getting lost inside his head again, John’s tongue swirls around the head, carefully sliding inside the lip of his nearly completely retracted foreskin, and Sherlock gasps. John pulls off with an unexpectedly lewd, wet noise, and looks up, smirking.  
  
“Sherlock, stop thinking. I can hear you from down here. If you want me to fuck you - ” Again, with that word. That vulgar, harsh, perfectly marvelous word. Every time Sherlock hears John say it, his cock twitches in anticipation. “ - I want you to relax.”  
  
He’s barely given Sherlock a moment to process that thought before engulfing his prick again. Sherlock bucks his hips and gasps, trying to control himself. That tongue, which had felt so sharp and rough in his mouth earlier, is now somehow impossibly soft and smooth against the hyper-sensitive skin of Sherlock’s shaft. John has one hand flat against the taut skin of Sherlock's abdomen, fingers absently stroking the soft trail of hair there. His other hand is roaming, stroking the insides of Sherlock's thighs, lightly cupping his balls, running a finger along the crease where they meet. But all Sherlock can feel right now is that mouth; John's tongue has never been so clever in all the time Sherlock's known him.  
  
Sherlock leans up, tilting his head to look down at John. Watching his prick disappear again and again as John takes the full length of it into his throat proves to be too much, and Sherlock has to close his eyes again. John is relentless, and Sherlock's not sure how much more he can handle. Just when it feels as though everything is narrowing down to a precise point, hanging in the balance between aware, alert, and completely and utterly mind-blown, John unfurls his tongue, dragging one long slow stroke against the underside of Sherlock's shaft. He flicks it against the fraenulum, almost an afterthought, and Sherlock bucks again. John pulls away, the mattress shifting slightly.  
  
Perplexed, Sherlock opens his eyes again. John’s hand is up near Sherlock’s face, gesturing in a way that implies he wants something. But what? He opens and closes his fingers again, grasping at nothing, suddenly resuming the wet suction on Sherlock’s cock. John's swallowed him nearly to the hilt, lips forming a tight ring around every vein, every crease. It’s difficult to concentrate, until John’s other hand finds its way to the cleft of Sherlock’s arse. One finger circles the puckered circle of his anus. It's incredibly delicate, but sets off fireworks in the back of Sherlock's brain nonetheless.  
  
The hand is still open, waiting patiently in front of Sherlock's face. Infuriating John, why doesn't he just ask for what he wants. Each time he flexes his hand, his index finger circles lightly around Sherlock's hole, and suddenly it dawns on him. Lube. Of course. Sherlock shakes his head, trying to focus, but John’s making it impossibly complicated. Frustrating to feel so stupid. But so worth it. He stretches one arm out, scrabbling to reach the bedside table and find the lube. Sherlock’s fingers wrap around the narrow neck of the bottle and he places it into John’s awaiting palm, feeling far more proud of himself than such a simple task warrants.  
  
Apparently satisfied, John pulls off Sherlock's cock again, rolling his tongue over the head and across the leaking slit briefly. He places one obscenely wet kiss on each inner thigh before delicately taking first one of Sherlock's testicles and then the other into his mouth. When he pulls off, the rush of cold air makes the thin skin of Sherlock's scrotum crawl, the sparse hair offering little in the way of warmth or comfort, but the sensation is far from unpleasant. Each tiny exhale from John causes another ripple and Sherlock realises he's moaning quietly.  
  
His tongue hard and probing, John finds his way to the smooth expanse of Sherlock's perineum, licking a broad stripe along downwards. Sherlock has the shocking realisation that he knows where John's tongue is heading, and his head is flooded with noise. _That's filthy. No it's not. Why is it filthy? Impossibly arousing. Was I thorough enough in the shower this morning? What if he changes his mind? What if I don't enjoy it? What if I do?_  
  
Before he's even got time to process the chain of thoughts, John's tongue darts out and circles the tight ring of flesh, one smooth swipe. Sherlock feels another soft tickle of warm air as John chuckles against him.  
  
"Sherlock, I told you to relax. It's all fine."  
  
There's an ungainly, inelegant whimper that Sherlock will deny to his dying day came from him, and then finally the acceptance that John's actually going to do this. He makes another concentrated effort to relax, just as there's another impossibly glorious swirl of John's tongue. And he's not even breached yet, just delicate little circles of that firm, ingenious tongue. Just as Sherlock's starting to become acclimatised to the overwhelming cascade of sensations coming from such a tiny cluster of nerves, John wraps his throbbing erection with one slick hand. When had he found time to lubricate it? Sherlock's awareness of the things around him is slipping, which should be incredibly frustrating but somehow it seems irrelevant right now.  
  
Impossibly slowly, John works the tip of his tongue inside Sherlock, wriggling it slightly. With a gasp, Sherlock feels the ring of muscle relaxing, and John takes no prisoners, thrusting further in, spiraling his tongue just inside the rim. With each thrust of his tongue, John slides his hand up and down the length of Sherlock's prick, until he's well and truly fucking him with both fist and mouth Sherlock grips the sheets, biting his lip in an attempt not to orgasm right then.  
  
John works his hand to the tip again, sliding the foreskin up with a slight twist of the wrist that has Sherlock seeing spots. He slides his tongue out of Sherlock and delicately wraps his lips around the now-loosened ring of muscle, kissing Sherlock in the most intimate way imaginable. John's mouth pulls away, leaving Sherlock feeling thoroughly bereft, until he feels the warm heat enveloping his testicles yet again, and the unfamiliar but not unwelcome sensation of a thick, slippery finger sliding inside of him.  
  
Tauntingly, John keeps him like this - one finger gently probing inside his anus; one hand steadily and constantly stroking his desperately engorged shaft; testicles, now drawn up tight and hard against his body, gently licked and sucked. There's a slight stretch, a tiny burn, but an incredibly pleasurable one, as John slides a second finger and then a third inside of Sherlock. There's a moment where John seems to be probing, searching for something with his fingers.  
  
And then suddenly, Sherlock feels a chain of sparks crawling up his spine. Synapses crackling, flashbulbs popping behind his eyes. He gasps, trying in vain to catalogue everything he's feeling and seeing all at once, but eventually gives it up as a lost cause as his sight goes grey. His entire world has narrowed to the fulcrum of his hips, rocking between John's hands and his mouth. There's someone gasping for breath, shouting loudly, and it's a second or two before Sherlock realises it's him. His cock is twitching violently, copious ribbons of come splattering across his abdomen, as far up as his sternum. Some part in the back of his brain makes note of the fact that he's never come so forcefully when he's masturbated himself, but right now that all seems incredibly unimportant.  
  
There's a strange sense of loss, of incompleteness, as John slides his fingers out of the twitching ring of muscle, slides his other hand up the softening length of Sherlock's cock before crawling up the bed next to him. John places a soft kiss at Sherlock's temple, and it's only then that he realises how sweaty they both are. When did that happen? Sherlock scowls briefly at his faculties failing him again, but it seems like this time it's been for a worthy cause.  
  
"How was that?" John murmurs, his face a soft mixture of warmth and concern. "You alright?"  
  
Sherlock nods, managing an incoherent mumble. His hand wanders down John's torso, seemingly of its own volition, and finds an erection so hard it must be uncomfortable. Awkwardly, he slides a loose fist around John's prick, and John playfully thrusts his hips through the ring of Sherlock's hand. The angle is so different from touching himself that Sherlock isn't entirely sure what to do, and finds himself cursing his inexperience. John pulls him closer and nips at Sherlock's earlobe, which sends another rush of blood to his recently spent cock, something Sherlock wasn't sure was actually possible.  
  
"I guess you don't want me to fuck you then?" John's voice is playful and teasing.  
  
Sherlock's eyes go wide. He'd gotten so caught up in John's deft ministrations that he'd forgotten he'd gotten John to agree to penetrate him.  
  
"Oh! Erm..." Frustrated at his loss of words, Sherlock scowls, which John apparently finds endearing because he kisses Sherlock just along the cheekbone, stubble scratching his cheek. "I'd still... If you want..."  
  
There's a throaty rumble from John's throat. "I do want, very much so. You should still be good and relaxed."  
  
Sherlock realises it's true. He's not felt this pliant, this boneless, not since the morphine. "I am. It seems like there are some perks to this sex thing after all."  
  
John rolls his eyes, laughing quietly. "So how do you want this? On your knees would probably be ea-"  
  
"No." Sherlock's adamant. He wants to see John's face. To study his expressions. "On my back." John nods, as if he can read Sherlock's thoughts. John reaches up towards the headboard and grabs a pillow. Sherlock raises his hips from the bed so John can tuck the pillow under him, angling his pelvis slightly forward.  
  
"Just promise me, Sherlock. If anything gets uncomfortable, or overwhelming, you'll tell me, right?"  
  
Sherlock nods, though they both know he's lying. He's not going to give up this opportunity for a new experience, not for the world. John bends down, kissing Sherlock deeply one more time. Knowing where his tongue has been should probably disgust Sherlock, but it's all inconsequential right now. He wraps his hands around John's back, fingers splayed across compact shoulders, and pulls them closer together. John pulls at Sherlock's lower lip with his teeth, and they both gasp sharply.  
  
"John, please, hurry. I want you."  
  
"You've got me, I'm not going anywhere." John smiles again, pulling away to settle between Sherlock's spread legs. The sight of him, flushed from throat to pelvis, penis luridly red and engorged, jutting away from his body at an impossible angle, proves to be nearly too much for Sherlock. He's torn between looking away and staring forever, to burn this image of John, his John, so eager and desperate for him, onto his retinas forever. He settles for cataloguing it away in his memory, to be revisited on nights when they have to be separated.  
  
Biting his lip, John grips himself firmly, positioning his hips so that the head of his penis is resting lightly against the ring of Sherlock's anus.  
  
"Deep breath, Sherlock. This might feel a bit strange."  
  
Sherlock can only hope so. Strange is good. Strange is familiar. He nods, feeling a trickle of sweat run down his temple. Eyes closed, he steadies himself against the mattress as John slides into him. Just the head at first, before he pulls out. Eagerly, Sherlock tips his pelvis forward in an attempt to pull more of John into him.  
  
"Sherlock, you are going to be the death of me."  
  
Sherlock opens his eyes and finds John staring into them. The deep rings of his pupils have nearly obliterated the blue of his eyes, unfathomably deep. Through some unspoken agreement, John slides deeply into him while they stare at each other. He lets out a low moan, deep and guttural, and it's enough to make Sherlock's cock twitch again.  
  
"Christ, Sherlock. God, you're so tight. This isn't going to last long."  
  
At this, Sherlock's prick gives another interested spasm. Not enough for an erection, but still noteworthy. He'd never have anticipated enjoying dirty talk, but again, that magical unknown variable - John - has changed everything.  
  
"John?"  
  
"Mm?"  
  
"Fuck me."  
  
"Oh god."  
  
With that, John begins thrusting in earnest. At first the sensation is more strange than pleasurable, but as the muscle relaxes further it starts getting more and more interesting, and when John angles his hips just so, the head of his cock brushing against Sherlock's prostate, Sherlock cries out sharply and wraps his hands around John's arse, attempting to pull him further in.  
  
Uninhibited now, John pistons his hips, rocking Sherlock against the mattress with each pounding thrust. Sherlock's startled to realise that at some point he's wrapped both legs around John's torso, effectively locking them together. Even more startling is the realisation that he's fully erect again, the tightness in his abdomen making it evident he's well on the way to another orgasm.  
  
He insinuates one hand between their bodies, wrapping it around himself and tugging fiercely, timing each pull with John's deep thrusting, which has started to get jerky and erratic.  
  
"Oh Christ, Sher--- Sherlock. God." John's hips judder once, twice, before stilling, buried deeply inside of Sherlock. He bends down, forehead resting against the sharp angle of Sherlock's collarbone, and Sherlock gasps as he feels John twitching, climaxing deep inside of him.  
  
Coming down from his orgasm, John must have realised that Sherlock is close again. He wraps his hand around Sherlock's and strokes fiercely as he pulls out, and that's all it takes before Sherlock is teetering on the brink. He comes again, far less violently this time, with a quiet whimper. This time he's aware of everything - his own muscle spasms, the slow steadying of John's breath above him, the cold trickle of John's come down the cleft of his arse. Gasping for breath, he lets his head fall heavily, vaguely aware of John moving off of him and settling down on the bed next to him.  
  
John tucks himself against Sherlock's side, and Sherlock rolls over, back slotting neatly against John's chest. John throws one arm sleepily around Sherlock's midsection, which is pleasantly comforting. If this is cuddling, maybe it's not as bad as Sherlock had initially imagined.  
  
"How're you feeling now?" John's voice is soothing against Sherlock's neck.  
  
"Stretchy. Floppy. Sticky."  
  
"Ah, yes. The lesser-known of the dwarves."  
  
Sherlock turns his head to peer at John, perplexed. John just grins.  
  
"Never mind. Don't expect two every time." John chuckles, nuzzling against Sherlock's shoulder.  
  
Sherlock pouts. "You shouldn't have spoilt me this time around then."  
  
"Mm, I guess we'll just have to keep trying. If... you're okay with that."  
  
Sherlock wriggles, burrowing his face into a pillow and relishing in the contact with John's body.  
  
"I am more than okay with that, John."


End file.
